As I first saw her I am struck by her complex simplicity. Her hair is twisted up in a messy french twist, it is a delicate coffee-color, streaked with silver. Her clip had been tossed in without thought and throughout her day has lost it’s hold on her fine strands. Time has created rivers of creases across her face and yet she doesn’t appear old. Her youthful eyes continue to shine despite the folds in the corners of her eyes.
She writes. She is left-handed like myself, and she hold her page at an angle to ensure her hand doesn’t slide across and buff out her carefully chosen words. She writes as I do, turning the pen once in her hand between lines, to assure that her grip is perfected before returning the pen to paper.
She is not from here. She titles each post in her book with a different city. She is not from here, but she belongs here. This coffee shop is her home, her writing arena, same as hundreds of coffee shops before, who’s atmosphere’s encouraged earlier entries. She travels frequently, a life of writing in coffee shops.
